Navigating Perimenopause on the Road: The Real Test Drive

Driving used to be my happy place. Windows down, music up. Left hand on the wheel, right on a cup of coffee.

Enter perimenopause.

Now, it’s less "joy ride" and more "emotional demolition derby."

You leave the house already flustered because you forgot your keys, your sunglasses, and your sense of sanity. You finally get in the car with sweat instantly pooling in places you didn’t know had sweat glands. You crank the A/C to "Hoth Planet," but you're somehow still both freezing and melting.

You hit the road, only to discover every single moron in a 10-mile radius has decided to take a casual scenic drive in front of you. They don’t use blinkers. They brake for imaginary squirrels. They drive like they’re sightseeing through a tulip field. Meanwhile, you’re one spontaneous hot flash away from full combustion.

And then, because the universe has jokes, you hit every red light. Not just red. Aggressively red. The kind of red that feels personal. You start negotiating with it like it’s a toxic ex:

“Just turn green. That’s all I’m asking. One small act of cooperation.”

It does not turn green.

The car next to you is blasting music so loud, YOUR windows are vibrating. The person behind you is busy applying mascara. The person in front of you hasn’t moved even though the light finally turned green five seconds ago. You contemplate lightly tapping your horn… but instead you lay on it like you’re announcing the end of days.

And this is where 'Venny from the block' comes out.

Because suddenly, you are no longer a calm, evolved adult. You are narrating everyone’s life choices out loud like you’ve been personally appointed Commissioner of Driving Standards:

“So, we don’t use blinkers now? Oh, I forgot I was psychic. Thanks!”

“You had all this space and you chose this lane? On purpose?”

“And you - yes YOU - what are we doing? Are we driving? Are we parking? Are we writing a memoir in the middle of the road? Pick a struggle.”

Hands are flying. Eyebrows are raised. There’s a full one-woman off-Broadway performance happening in your driver’s seat and everyone is getting reviewed.

Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse - of course - a surprise construction project. Starting on a Friday afternoon before a long weekend, because why not test the limits of human stability? One lane open. Merging chaos. Your brain, already a menopausal soup, starts glitching.

And merging? Oh, merging is now a full personality test. The person who won’t let you in becomes your sworn enemy. The one who waves you in becomes your emotional support human. You consider following them home just to thank them properly.

As you sit in standstill traffic, your hormones decide to stage a full Broadway production: tears, rage, laughter, existential dread. You start singing along to the radio, then full-on screaming lyrics as if you’re auditioning for an unhinged metal band.

And let’s not even talk about the moment someone cuts you off. Pre-perimenopause, you might have sighed.

Now?

Now you deliver a full TED Talk from behind the wheel about accountability, respect, and the collapse of civilized society.

They cannot hear you.

But that is not the point.

At some point, you forget what you were even upset about and just… exist in a state of general irritation. The seatbelt is too tight. The sun is too bright. Your hair is doing something offensive. The air vent is either directly in your eyeball or completely useless.

By the time you arrive (wherever "there" was), you’re disheveled, half-melted, and running purely on caffeine and spite.

You sit there for a second, hands still gripping the wheel, heart rate somewhere between “cardio” and “call a priest.”

And then it hits you:

You weren’t the problem.

You are just surrounded by problems.

You sit there for a second, shake your head, and mutter:

“This is why I don’t go anywhere.”

Then you grab your bag, slam the door just a little harder than necessary, smooth your shirt. Check your reflection.

Totally normal.

And walk in like you didn’t just emotionally spiral through seven personalities and a full character arc at three separate red lights.

Completely fine.

Mentally stable-ish.